no place for soft hearts
by mew-tsubaki
Summary: M&MWP, oneshot, slash. 1st romantic THEO/RAB! Theodore Nott takes sides. He doesn't care which one is right, as long as Rabastan is on the same side. *slight AU because the Death Eaters needed to come out and play* Mention if used, thx.


**no place for soft hearts**

A HariPo oneshot

by mew-tsubaki

Note: The _Harry Potter_ characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me. **This pairing was discovered by me, so please gimme a little mention if you write them**! **Thanks**! It is one of many of **Mew and Mor's Weird Pairings**, most of which you may find in the **M&MWP forum. **Check out and join the forum FUN! Read, review, and enjoy!

- ^-^3

Father has a bad habit. Ah, well, he has a lot of bad habits, but the one that stands out the most to you is the way he bites the left side of his lower lip so hard sometimes that you think he'll break the skin and bleed to death. He hasn't bled to death yet, but you keep wondering, hoping even, that it'll happen someday.

But that day won't be today. No, instead he is biting down on his lip because, once again, he is annoyed. He often is, with you around.

It's not your fault. You don't wish to be at home with him and his—his _friends_. You would even rather go and play with the Malfoy heir, the sniveling brat that he is. But no, Father didn't have the time to arrange to send you away tonight, so you wander the house like the house-elf your Father killed last month. (He goes through them almost as quickly as the Black family did.)

Father coughs and clears his throat, and that's the sign that you're lingering too close. The hushed chatter between him and his comrades fades away into nothing. "Go away," he says harshly.

No "Be a good boy, Theodore" or even a "Go play with your toys, Theo" (and, really, what toys?). He doesn't use your name because he didn't give it to you. No, that was your mother, whose life you took in order to be born. So you've never meant much of anything to him.

Lost in your thoughts for a moment, you jolt when you hear him speaking at you again. How rare, twice in one evening! "Didn't you hear me, boy?" he snaps.

You grip the sleeve of your baggy jumper in your seven-year-old hand. Uh-oh. If he speaks to you again, then you won't be sitting at all tomorrow.

But before you scramble away, someone stands up from the table and comes forward, motioning to Father and the others to continue without him. "Go on, then," he says, his voice smooth, not harsh like Father's. "I'll be but a moment, Nott."

"Don't waste your energy, Rabastan" is all Father says.

Rabastan turns to you and you flinch, expecting at the very least the back of his hand. But you flinch again when he smiles at you. Smiles scare you much more. "Hey, there," he says.

You say nothing. You're a good boy. You know not to speak, at all.

"Come on," Rabastan says, and he ushers you along gently, away from the small dining hall in the Nott family house. He walks you to the foot of the stairs. "It's 'Theodore,' yes?"

You nod.

He crouches down, and you're surprised by the blue of his eyes. They're deep and piercing, a blue a few shades darker than Father's favorite Bluebell Flame spell (favorite because he loves to throw fireballs at you and see you run away in fear). Rabastan's blue eyes scare you, but you don't know why. It's different from other things that scare you. You suppose you're just not used to such a color.

You open your mouth to speak—wouldn't it be nice to use your voice for once?—but you recall at the last second your lifelong orders and shut your trap.

Rabastan looks kindly at you. "It's all right, Theodore. Your father didn't mean to snap at you. We adults will be done and out of here in no time. Do you have a book to read, or something? Time will fly that way, I find."

Your head hangs. You've also been told not to lie. So you can't tell Rabastan that you have things to occupy your time when you don't.

He frowns for a second and then glances back over his shoulder. It's almost as though he hadn't even been at the table, with how Father and Lucius Malfoy and two of the other men are discussing business heatedly. He turns back to you. "Hey, mind showing me around here? Your dad's always liked to keep his secrets… I know Lucius' home pretty well, and my home's boring…"

He seems genuine, kind. You don't know how to handle kind. But you take him on a tour anyway, because you're a good, obedient boy.

Besides, he knows and uses your name. And no one's ever done that before.

- ^-^3

"Theodore!"

Rabastan's face is as young as ever (which makes sense, since he attended school after your father) as it breaks into a mischievous smile. You hold a finger to your lips, motioning for him to be quiet, and he blinks and copies the motion, growing quiet. You both look behind him, and Father doesn't look at you two. He's decided to ignore Rabastan so long as he's entertaining you.

But Rabastan's older brother, Rodolphus Lestrange, he sneers at you. "Babysitting," he grumbles with a roll of his eyes. When he turns around, Rabastan makes a rude gesture at his back.

You look up morosely at Rabastan, and he gives you a sad smile and a shake of his head.

"Don't listen to him," Rabastan mumbles. He ushers you upstairs. Nothing much awaits you there, but it at least dulls the sounds of downstairs. "Roddie's always had a stick up his arse."

You can't help but snicker, but you try to cover the sound with a cough.

"Ah, what's this?" Rabastan smirks. "Almost four years of interaction, and this is the first I get a laugh out of you?"

You give him a sarcastic look and open the door to your room. It's a happier place now, with—as he said—four years of interaction under your belt. There is an old, worn, stuffed hippogriff hiding under your pillow that once belonged to Rabastan in his boyhood. Tucked under your clothes in your drawers are several books Rabastan has snuck in to you. You even possess a dead deck of Exploding Snap cards, and it's good that the enchantment wore off a long time ago, so you can play in silence. If Father found out about any of this, he'd probably finally hit you with those flames…

"What shall we do this evening?" the older wizard says as he hogs your bed and stretches out like he's just your fellow eleven-year-old.

You smile, just a smidge, to yourself. He's like an older brother, or a very young uncle who thinks he's still a kid. Honestly, you enjoy his company, so you don't think you have to do something every time he comes to Father's meetings. "Dunno," you say, and Merlin how you cherish the use of your voice. You only get to use it when Rabastan comes over once a month.

"'Dunno'?" he echoes. "All right, then. Let's be girls and chat, Theodore. After all, I'll be missing my playmate starting…what, next month already? Shite, that pulls up so quickly, that time of year."

Your shoulders sag. You hadn't exactly wished to talk about this, but on the other hand… "Yeah. September first. To Hogwarts, I go."

"I remember when I went. Lots of loud, annoying people. But there were a few good ones, too. A few okay ones, in my year or thereabouts. One bloke…" Rabastan's eyes close for a moment. "Well, it was a different time, Theodore. You thought you knew someone, and then—" He pauses and sits up. "Anyway, these days it's easier to know who's on your side."

"You mean like my father," you say, "or Malfoy or Dolohov."

Rabastan looks at you, and you hope he doesn't catch the coldness in your eyes. You've never confessed that you're not on Father's side, and you don't think you'll ever 'fess up. Thankfully, Rabastan doesn't press you, or maybe he doesn't read that in you. "So what are you thinking of, concerning Hogwarts?"

"It'll finally give me something to do," you admit, and you rummage through your clothes until you pull out a flimsy book and toss it to him.

"House?"

"I thought Slytherin was the only one."

There's a pause, and Rabastan clucks his tongue. "…yeah. Yes, you're right." He forces out a chuckle as he picks up the book. "Ah, this one again?"

"I like it."

"Do you ever read it on your own?"

"Of course. The only useful thing you taught me was how to read."

Rabastan nods, as if giving up. "You'd think you'd get sick of it, then, or at least of the sound of my voice reading it aloud."

You look away, hiding your growing smile. You could never get sick of his voice, not when it's the only thing that carries you out of here one night per month.

It doesn't hit you right away, how much you'll miss it once you start school.

- ^-^3

You come into your own, at school, albeit quietly. That makes perfect sense as, outside of Slytherin, the biggest talk for two years has been the Boy-Who-Lived. Inside of Slytherin, Draco Malfoy's the hotshot, but you've been putting up with him since you both were in diapers, so that's nothing new.

Malfoy's nothing special. He's fairly bright, but his obsession with Potter is embarrassing. It's almost as though he's trying to be something as astounding as the Boy-Who-Lived, but aside from his family's money, there's nothing special about Malfoy.

Still, just as in the good ol' days, you lend him your ear sometimes (otherwise, Father would hear about it). These days Malfoy likes to muse about this Heir of Slytherin business. He puts up a front around the others: Parkinson, Zabini, Goyle, Crabbe. Daphne Greengrass feigns interest occasionally, but the other two Slytherin girls in your year could care less about any of them; they prefer to keep to themselves.

"If I was the Heir, I wouldn't pick off everyone immediately," Malfoy drones on. His gray eyes are colder than the castle's stones. "I'd come up with a pattern. The kind of pattern that would take the adults too long to realize is a pattern."

You look away and roll your eyes. Amongst other things you picked up from Rabastan, you know how to hide your true personality. The only person you've let see you being a prat is Rabastan; anyone else isn't safe.

Still, Malfoy wants feedback. "Well? What do you think, Nott?"

You sigh. Great, he's forced your hand. "I'm not sure. I think doing something like that while in school is a risk."

Malfoy smirks. "You're too cautious, Nott. That's the whole point. Making them fear that they can't find the Heir because it could be one of any dozens of students. They can't force Veritaserum down all our gullets," he finishes.

Because of Father, you're used to scary. Because of that, you're used to fighting down shivers. Still, the chill that creeps up your spine is akin to someone's icy fingers dragging along it. At least Malfoy's all talk.

…you hope. Truth is, you're fretting, and it's enough for you to risk owling Rabastan. You've never done so before, and you hope an owl can make a delivery with just a name.

It takes a week longer than normal to get a response, but you're sure that's because you didn't have an address for him.

_Theodore—_

_You mustn't write such things in the post, especially if you're using a school owl! These things get checked, you know._

_About M: He's not that bright a fellow, is he? Don't worry about him. He doesn't know what he's talking about. He's just a kid._

—_Rabastan_

It's nothing much. But it's more than you hoped for. Rabastan's right. There's no reason to believe that Malfoy is anything but talk. It's nice that you have someone in your corner, someone to set your mind at ease.

(In April, you get an owl for your thirteenth birthday.

The school year ends with Potter having another victory under his belt, and his fame grows.

But you could care less. You've got your own owl.)

(You're hiding many more smiles these days.)

- ^-^3

The summer seems to end in the blink of an eye, or some other cliché. There are more meetings than usual, but now Rabastan is a part of their plans. It's as if the others finally remembered that he's one of them.

You hole up in your room like usual when they're over, and you try not to think of the next day when you'll be forced to entertain Prince Malfoy over at the Malfoy estate. At least you've got your schoolbooks to keep you company.

Rabastan tries to deny that for as long as possible, the fact that you cope fine with nothing but the attention of your homework for weeks on end. But eventually he gives in, and you wonder if maybe you're more interesting than Father's clandestine get-togethers.

"Been looking all over for you," Rabastan says by way of greeting.

You don't look up from your book. "Sorry. There are just _so_ many hiding spots in this house."

He grunts and crosses his arms in front of his chest, standing in your doorway. "Oh, don't become a moody teenager _now_, Theodore."

You frown and glance up. As soon as you do, you know you've lost the game. "I'm not moody."

"Right," he says with a laugh. He walks over, pushes your feet to the side, and sits at the foot of your bed. "You're selectively emotional."

You give him a look. Your navy eyes look black when reflected in his ultramarine ones. "What do you want?"

"Where have your manners gone?" he says offhandedly. "I didn't even get a 'thank you' for the bird."

Something feels off, and you touch your cheeks without a thought. Huh. They're warm. That's kind of embarrassing. Because of that and his reminder, you give him a little glare. "Thank you," you say through gritted teeth.

He smirks, and it's nice. It's nothing like Malfoy's smirk, which makes you want to leave the room. It's familiar and—hmm—welcoming, you suppose. "Nice to know you haven't forgotten your manners after all." Still, he lets it go. "Name?"

"'Owl.'"

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me. You're horrible, Theo."

It doesn't even occur to you that, for the first time in your life, you've got a nickname. "Well, I'm not creative."

"Yes, you are. You've managed to stay sane in this house for thirteen years." Rabastan takes in a low, deep breath; he's actually impressed. "That takes creativity."

You want to ask him a million things at once suddenly: why he's impressed, why he turns so serious sometimes, why he visits you, why he brings you things, what runs through his mind when you two interact, what his place is among your father's compatriots, why he ever bothered to smile at a lowly, lonely seven-year-old you…

Why it seems as though he understands everything you've ever been through.

Instead, you ask, "How about 'Jet'?"

"Well, the bird's fast, but not _that_ fast, to be honest…"

But you don't explain to him your reasoning. It would just make your cheeks burn hotter anyway. (Because his shiny tresses remind you of the black stone, and you like little reminders that he exists, that he's in your life. After all, he's in your corner, and an ally is a nice thing to have in this lonely world.)

"So, uh…how has Nott been around the, uh…the bird?"

You scoff. "Father actually congratulated me when I came home."

Rabastan's eyes widen. You like that. You like seeing so much blue. "What?"

"Yes, he thought I stole it from the school or some student. He said that that would make him proud. And then he said not to ruin the moment by telling me the truth." You close your book with a sigh. "I think I'd be Son of the Year if I turned bad."

To your surprise, Rabastan's eyes soften. "Don't do that, Theo. Bad… You're far from bad." He ruffles your short, choppy hair.

"Rabastan!" Rodolphus hollers. His voice is like sandpaper on glass.

"Duty calls," your…(what is he?)…friend states. He stands, pats your stocking feet, and turns to leave.

He's at the doorjamb when you pipe up, "You say that, but…what duty?"

You're curious—to be honest, you always have been, since your first memory of Father's meetings—but your curiosity won't be sated tonight. No, because Rabastan halts, takes in a breath, hangs his head, and…taps the jamb with his fingers. For the first time since you've known him, he leaves without answering your question, even without a "goodbye."

A little part of you aches at that. You spend your third year trying to keep it from growing.

- ^-^3

Third year was entertaining enough. But the summer before fourth year? It's a freaking party.

For once you don't mind going over to Malfoy Manor. For once you don't mind having to entertain Prince Malfoy. Because you ping back and forth between your home and his, whenever the adults convene. And you start to take an interest in their on-goings.

If Father interrogated you, you'd be screwed. Honestly, you're not a very good liar (you're okay with half-truths), and you can't tell him your real reason.

See, if you flit around the edges of the meetings, you get a little more of Rabastan, a little more of his time. Of course, the others find you a distraction at times, but Lucius Malfoy cares to indulge you. While Rabastan doesn't encourage your interest (fake or not), Lucius Malfoy almost enjoys it.

"Draco isn't ready for these things yet," he tells the others, rather ashamed. "He…is still a boy. His interests have yet to mature. But Theodore here," he says with a hand on your shoulder and a way of saying your name that makes you want to hear Rabastan's "Theo" every single time to wipe it away, "Theodore perhaps might be the door into…the next generation." Lucius Malfoy meets the eyes of every man in the room.

"Then let Theodore decide," Rabastan says, his tone clipped.

"Not today," Father interrupts, and that closes the discussion. For now.

Rabastan leads you out of the room—not for the first time—and walks you out to the lush gardens. "The Malfoys never spared any penny," he comments as he gazes upon some purple flowers.

"I'm not a child," you tell him, and you immediately regret saying it, because that was the top thing to make you sound weak.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest (he's doing that more often now) and groans. "Theo…"

Your stomach flips, and you furrow your brow. "Does this have something to do with your duty?"

He ruffles your hair until you push him away. You notice his long, black hair is tied back today. For business, you presume. "…it does," he confesses.

"And that is…?"

"None of your business."

You grimace. "I know what you guys talk about. I know that your pro-blood purity leanings are strong and run deep. Why do you think I cracked a joke about Lupin at the end of the year? The school, for letting a half-breed teach us—"

Rabastan closes his eyes, and it's like having something stolen from you, without his gaze on you. "Don't say such things, Theo. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't? Care to enlighten me, then?" you remark cheekily.

When he does finally look at you, his eyes are smoldering. Yes, you learned a new word this past school year after listening to Daphne and Pansy giggle ridiculously over the short stories in that horrendous publication, _Witch Weekly_. "Listen to me, Theodore," he says lowly, "after you have lived the life I have, after you have seen the prejudices I have, after you have _lost_—" Rabastan hisses and catches his breath. "Once you have lived, then come talk to me."

You nod weakly, your obedient nature kicking in. As he backs off, you realize that he'd been hovering over you. In the back of your brain, something clicks that he's taller than you, much taller. You note the difference and tuck it back away.

Rabastan deflates and he beckons to you as he enters the gardens. "Ah, come on, Theo." His voice is gentle once more. "I can't stay mad at you."

You're glad, and you happily dog his heels. You don't want him to be mad at you, just as you'd never want to be mad at him. No, you'd much rather be mad at whatever traumas made Rabastan such a calculating, nervous, cautious person.

Of course, in lieu of that, you choose to hate whichever persons caused him those traumas, even though you don't know who they are. Maybe you'll figure it out someday (as if his snarky remarks about Sirius Black's escape aren't clues enough), but maybe that day isn't today. No day this summer is.

But Malfoy gives you someone to hate when he comments to you one day, "So, what's the deal?"

"What deal?" you ask with little to no interest.

"You and Lestrange."

You halt. You're mid-reach for a book in their family library on another day full of meetings.

"And don't try, 'Which Lestrange?' Because my uncle and his brother look alike, but they aren't twins."

You still your tongue. You'd almost been about to say, "They look nothing alike." But you're smart enough to realize that that would only dig your grave this much deeper. "Why do you ask?"

Malfoy sneers. "It's strange."

"Hmm."

"_You're_ strange."

You nearly smirk. "He's Lestrange."

"Don't get cute, Nott." Malfoy comes up to you and gets in your face. "It's weird to be bosom buddies with someone twice our age."

"Not really." You take the tome you wanted and flip through it.

"What, do you fancy him or something?"

"Why would you say that?" you say calmly. You check your emotions; you can experience them and question them later.

He shrugs, and a blond hair falls out of place. He fixes it. "I guess because I don't have any other explanation for you two."

You allow yourself a snort. "Well, I'm a bit of an old soul, Malfoy."

"Are you saying you're too mature for my company, Nott?" There's a quiet moment, and then he smiles. It's the dangerous smile of a Cornish Pixie. "I like you, Nott. You're fine with being a frank bastard at times."

Oddly enough, a part of you relaxes. Maybe you'd been wrong about Malfoy. Or maybe he's just finally growing up.

Either way, his carefree words have gotten to you, and you ponder them alone in your quiet room. Fancy? Rabastan? That's unheard-of. It's despicable. You don't feel that way, and you never would, not towards him. He's in your corner, that's all.

(…the corner of your brain… …the corner of your heart…)

And then…

The Quidditch World Cup happens. And you know that recent plans from recent meetings come to fruition.

You didn't attend (lucky git Malfoy did), but you wish you had. Though, you could care less about the Quidditch and more about the Death Eater attack that ended up with Potter briefly in trouble.

After the attack, the summer ends without any more meetings. They're lying low, staying off the grid for now. You don't blame them. That's the smart thing to do.

But you wish you could see _him_. You wish you could've been there for _him_, with _him_. After all, what if he'd been captured? He's a cautious man, but you think on your feet and would be willing to bet you do so better than he (you've had years of practice from dodging punishments here and there).

You begin to think about their masks, and wonder which one is his… If you had one, what would it look like…? You start to design one, halfheartedly, on bits of parchment that you hide under your mattress…

When the summer ends and you're on the train back to Hogwarts, you don't like the itchy feeling you get from Malfoy being right. There's something about you and Rabastan…but you're not willing to admit it's that.

- ^-^3

The year is horrible, worse than the last.

The Triwizard Tournament is the most boring thing anyone could've come up with, even if there is the possibility of death for any or all of the competitors.

Yes, yes, so they get to play host to two other schools.

And, yes, so there's an uproar because Potter managed to steal the spotlight once more.

But you could care less. You're too busy in the library when not in class, looking up information on Hogwarts back around the time when Rabastan attended. You're not learning all that much, sad to say. Although he attended at the same time as the Marauders, so that can't be a coincidence (because you've heard some stories—everyone who's ever gone to Hogwarts has).

For Easter holidays, there's one meeting, held at your home, and you're glad for it. You've not seen Rabastan at all since the summer, and it's bad, for you. It's like withdrawal, which you think you can make sense of, because he was the first to give you so many things—and if you lost them, you don't know what you'd do.

Somehow, he manages to be cheery and serious at once. "You'll be fifteen soon," he remarks, and you play a delightfully boring and silent round of Exploding Snap.

You smile. "And sixteen after that, and seventeen after that, and so on…"

He whistles quietly. "Look at you, being a smartarse." He chuckles, though; it's a nice sound. "So what, you're growing up? That why you've got your hair like that?"

Without thinking, you reach up and run your hand through it. You like it. It's still choppy, but you've let it grow a bit, and now with just a little bit of help it sticks up in all directions, without looking messy. "The style's in," you fib.

"I'm sure the witches love that sort of thing," he snickers. But he still leans forward and ruffles your hair. "And I love messing with it." He laughs.

You don't mind one bit. Even if he did mess up your hair, you wouldn't care, as long as he'll still run his hand through it. Even if you're only like a kid brother to him… The thought gets you down, and you find yourself asking, "Hey, Rabastan…"

"Hmm?" He's about to lose this round.

"Why me?"

He doesn't need elaboration. You two communicate well. There's rarely a need for clarifications between you two.

He's quiet, and you're waiting to hear the "kid brother" comment. You're expecting it.

"You…remind me of myself in some ways."

Oh. That's…different.

He scoffs and tosses his hand down. "Damn, I've lost. When did you get so good at this, Theo?"

"You just got so poor at it, Rab." You slip it in there, the endearment. When he says nothing, you feel as though you've gotten away with the biggest heist ever.

With the end of your game, your night is over. Rabastan (and the others) must leave, and you note the uptick in chatter amongst the men, as if they're women. "Duty calls," he says, and you nod, because you no longer question him. You share his ideals, after all. You want to share more with him.

"See you," you say, as he's the last to leave.

He pauses at the front door. He looks at you, as if sizing you up. Then he chuckles darkly and mumbles to himself, "I'm such a narcissist…"

His words are puzzling, but you don't dwell on them.

(You just dwell on when you'll next see him.)

- ^-^3

But that won't be anytime soon.

Sad to say, you probably should've been participating in their meetings. If so, then maybe they wouldn't have almost been _caught_.

Good Merlin, it's ridiculous! They almost took care of Potter and, yes, they _did_ manage to bring the Dark Lord back, but at what cost?

You don't go over to the Malfoys' much now. Again everyone is playing it safe.

(And the Dark Lord is going from house to house to relax. He favors Malfoy Manor.)

But while it's fine to play it safe, you wish for a change of scenery, and Rabastan provides you with some when he gives you an announcement right after you come home from school. "Guess what?" He can barely keep the excitement out of his voice.

"What?" you ask, playing along. You got home yesterday and are still unpacking.

"Nott actually said you could come over."

You stop folding your spare trousers and look up at him. You're stunned by his words. "You… I… _What_?"

Rabastan scratches his head. "Well, see, with things picking up their pace and the Dark Lord playing favorites at different houses, your dad wants to be cast in a favorable light."

You smirk. "And you played him like a fiddle, didn't you?" You chuckle, impressed. "Using my father's dislike of me to get me out of the house… Nicely done, Rabastan."

"Yes, well, we both know how happy you aren't here," he states quietly. He waits until you resume your folding before he continues. "And, look, my place is on the grounds of my family home, so it'll be like being a world away even if the Dark Lord comes to stay."

You "hmm." "What, you don't think I'd want to meet him?"

There's a silence that lasts long enough to draw your eyes to him. His face is set rigidly, and you wonder why. Could it be that he doesn't want you involved in that part of his life, at all? That's ridiculous; it's always been a part of your life, ever since your father was Marked. (A stray thought catches you—you wonder what the Mark on Rabastan's arm looks like—and then it releases you just as fast…)

"Anyway, what about your brother?"

He eases up. "Oh, him. He lives in the main house, and he'll be too distracted to care."

"Why's that?"

"He's making preparations for Bella's homecoming," he lets slip. He freezes, eyes wide, and his gaze darts to you.

You hold it, also serious. "Oh." Then you clear your throat. "It's fine. I won't tell anyone anything. …it must be nice, getting her back." It feels strange, saying that, knowing that Rabastan's sister-in-law is the most famous insane witch ever known. A killer.

(Like Rabastan.)

You wish for another subject change.

"So, anyway, stop putting your things away," Rabastan finishes. He grabs your tie and sticks it back in your trunk. "Honestly, Theo, if you play your cards right, I'm sure your dad wouldn't even notice if you spent the whole summer with me." There his eyes go again, softening. "What do you say?"

"I say…I'd have to be Malfoy to refuse such an offer," you reply, and you both snicker at the jab. You don't feel any guilt because while Slytherin may be a brotherhood, it doesn't guarantee friendship, and Malfoy's not your friend. He can be a like mind, but he's not your friend.

Rabastan…is a friend. (And, ooh, thinking about that statement and Malfoy at the same time summons unwanted thoughts that you nearly have to beat down with a charm to bring you back to your senses.) That's why he takes you to his home, gives you a room, gets you acclimated—finally gets you to understand what others mean when they say they have a home.

His house-elf's name is Shunter, and he's a timid little thing. To your surprise, Rabastan doesn't beat him, although he's got no qualms yelling at the creature.

"He's not the best," Rabastan confesses, "but he gets the job done."

"How long have you had him?" you ask by the end of your first week at his home.

"Oh, since my parents let me take over the guesthouse ages ago."

You gape at him. "You've had him all this time, just the one?"

"Just the one." He pauses for thought. "Is that so odd?"

You explain to him about the house-elf situation at home. "I thought it was natural to go through them. After all, there are plenty more where he comes from."

Rabastan sighs. "Agh… I feel the need to undo everything your father has taught you."

You duck your head, not sure how you feel about that statement. "It's not that he taught me much… I just…drew conclusions, I suppose."

He shakes his head. "That won't do, Theo…"

You're not embarrassed by his remark. If anything, your heart swells. His tone sounds prepared, as if he's ready to breathe life into you, who's been nothing but a clay doll all this time.

(The godlike analogy doesn't get by you, but you don't mind. You accepted him as your creator a long time ago.)

- ^-^3

"And that's another ten points to Rabastan. Good Merlin, are you half asleep, Theo?"

You feel silly and annoyed at once. Silly, because a man twenty years your senior who acts like a little kid can fly faster than you (despite the fact that you're equally skinny as he is). Annoyed, because this is the third race you've had flying on brooms inside the house today, and you just can't win.

"Getting angry?" he queries, a wolfish grin gracing his features. "Well, well. I thought you didn't get angry."

"I do. Just not at you."

"Except for now."

"I'm not angry."

"Yes, you are."

"'Buggered' is not 'angry.'"

Rabastan lets his hair down, and you quell the jolt in your arm that almost made you reach for it. He's very pretty, for a man. "Shall we stop, then? You look as though you need to catch your breath."

"Git," you curse as you slap him in the arm.

He laughs, but you hear nothing. You can't as a few inky tresses fall over your hand. But sadly he reties it. "Come on. Why don't we go outside and practice some of those spells I showed you the other day?"

Outside, where the world is your dueling stage, you kind of wish you didn't have to go back to school. You could learn everything from him. To live, to survive, to be good, to be bad—you don't care. Even if you do go back to school, you'd like to wish you could come back here again. You don't want to be away from any of this.

Flying in the house.

Flinging spells with no care for prying eyes.

Having a house-elf take care of you every day instead of doing things yourself.

Talking with Rabastan into the wee hours of the morning, and then waking up later with print on your face because you fell asleep reading.

Not being ashamed to walk around in denims and t-shirts during hot weather in lieu of jumpers and robes (Father's so damned old-fashioned).

Poking and prodding Rabastan until he finally gives in and shows you his room, with things from his teen years.

(Ah, you just want to join his collection… You want to be put on his shelf, never to be removed and always to be seen when he wakes first thing in the morning.)

But, of course, there is school. With its looming presence, reality crawls in, and you recall why Rabastan's been enjoying himself so much. You've been afraid to call him on it, especially with the possibility of ears listening in, but… "Are you scared?" you inquire the morning of your departure.

The house is quiet. It doesn't feel as welcoming with the two of you dressed to face the world once more. Rabastan lifts his hair gracefully out of his cloak's collar. He doesn't clear his throat. "Don't talk like that." His voice is raspy; it almost sounds like his brother's.

"Why? You can tell me, you know—"

"Stop!" He's never snapped at you before. It's like a slap in the face, his tone. "Don't say anything more."

You sulk, and the few steps to the door seem a mile away. "I'm sorry." Huh. Your first apology—not only does he give you so many firsts, he gets them, as well.

"That's good," he says. "You still know remorse."

Again with a puzzling sentiment. You furrow your brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He opens the door, and the conversation closes. "It means that we best get you back home."

Of course, all that does is remind Father that you exist, so Rabastan offers to take you to the station. Well. Look at you. Your first summer without Father. Never thought you'd pull it off, did you?

"Sorry you're a few hours early for the train," Rabastan says (the first words between you two in about an hour).

"It's all right. I don't mind," you lie.

Rabastan's eyes are darting everywhere, and you remember that he and the others are still trying to keep a low profile since their success. Still, you think he's being paranoid, because no one's looking his way. Surprisingly, he doesn't stand out (no, only to you, he does).

"You can go."

"No, I—" He chokes on his sentence. It's not just paranoia. He really doesn't know what to do in this kind of situation. You wonder if maybe he's ever had anyone to look after, or if he's ever been looked after himself.

Though you're in public and you believe your smile's reserved for him alone, it slowly curves the corners of your mouth upward. "Then stay with me?"

He takes a deep breath, as if he's working on a phobia. "…for a little while."

A little while is all you could hope for.

- ^-^3

At last, school holds your attention. It's brilliant, really. Everyone thinks Dumbledore and Potter are nuts. This Umbridge woman is a riot. Useless teachers are being sacked left and right. About the only disappointment is Umbridge's belief in magical theory instead of practice. Still, you get by, and you even laugh a little at Malfoy's jokes from time to time.

Zabini snorts at you. "So you _do_ have a sense of humor enough to chuckle."

Your eyes slide somewhat coldly to the black boy. "Your point?"

He shakes his head. "No point. Just didn't realize you had a personality."

"That's mean, Blaise," Daphne says, and Pansy makes a gagging gesture at her words. Daphne flips her off.

"That's rude, Daph," Pansy says, mimicking her blonde friend's voice.

"Besides, Theodore has a lovely personality." Daphne's teal eyes flash your way and, while they catch you off-guard, they do nothing for you. You wish she wouldn't look at you like that.

"You're too positive for this House," Pansy snarls, and she reclines with her head in Zabini's lap (only because Malfoy isn't around).

"Shut up," Daphne retorts, but it's weak, and her eyes keep flicking to you.

You really don't give two shits. She's a nice girl, you guess, but you're just waiting for Christmas to come, hoping there's a meeting or at least a visit from Rabastan…

But before Christmas comes, you stop and wonder why you haven't seen Malfoy around as much. Sure, he likes taunting Potter, but he's begun to spend less and less time with Pansy and his goons. You're tempted to ask him what's up—you wouldn't know since you didn't see him once this summer (again with the firsts, and of course there's a link to Rabastan).

Once you decide to open your mouth, there's no need. Malfoy's back and king of the castle amongst the snakes. Must've been a fluke or something. Good thing, too. The less you involve yourself with Daphne, with Malfoy, with the others, the more you can let Rabastan occupy your mind.

- ^-^3

The Christmas break is agonizing.

The holiday has never meant much of anything to you, but perhaps with this past summer, you got your hopes up for something to happen this year.

You owl Rabastan, though Jet is reluctant. The bloody bird hates flying when it's cold.

_Rabastan—_

_Think Father or L.M. will be throwing a Christmas party?_

—_Theo_

His reply comes later in the day.

_Theo—_

_Very funny. No meetings this week. Enjoy your break, and study hard. O.W.L.s are a pain._

—_Rab_

Your heart sinks through your stomach. That wasn't the answer you'd hoped for, but perhaps it's a sign. You've been spoiled by him for more than half your life. Maybe it's about time that you put some distance between you two.

(Especially since every time Daphne looks emphatically at you, your mind always summons Rabastan's face.)

You spend your Christmas Day sifting through the secret sketches under your bed. It might not be too bad, you muse, becoming one of them. Sure, the Mark might hurt, but you reckon you'd look pretty good in black and a mask. Rabastan might be one of the Dark Lord's lieutenants, and you could be Rabastan's. Besides, it might be like having a real family.

(Though Rodolphus sets you on edge, Dolohov creeps you out, and you really wish Lucius Malfoy would set his sights on his own son. You don't want to join under anyone's guidance but Rabastan's.)

On New Year's, you make a resolution. You want to begin studies of the Dark Arts. You want to learn enough for the others to consider that you might actually join their ranks.

(You'll just have to practice Occlumency really well, to hide your real intentions.)

But how to go about this without setting Rabastan off? He's always seemed so resistant to your involvement…

Aha. The answer's been living with you for almost sixteen years.

You go and ask your father for a moment of his time. He tells you to make it quick, but you're smart. You know how to get his attention.

"The Mark…was it painful?"

And it's as though he's finally seeing that he has a son.

- ^-^3

Months pass, and you're in a much better mood. You've never been close to your father before, but now you stand a chance. Two owls with one spell, you think, as you form a relationship with him and begin your journey to securing your spot beside Rabastan.

As Malfoy and the others join some squad of Umbridge's to search for "misbehaving" students and the school goes crazy without Dumbledore at the helm, you hide forbidden books in your texts. You outsmart Pince and read, one at a time, books suggested to you by Father.

"Becoming a Death Eater isn't only about having brute force and knowing how to use it," he chants these days. "You've got to be smart, as well."

You know. You understand. It's why he and Lucius Malfoy do most of the talking at meetings, and people like Rowle keep their mouths shut. Despite you not really liking him, Father _is_ intelligent. You have to give him that.

And while things go well with you, a part of you is gleeful for another reason. You wonder when you'll get a letter—or maybe your first Howler. How long will it be before he hears? Is he distracted by other plans, so that he won't hear a thing? Maybe he's waiting for the summer to yell at you. You wouldn't mind. Not if you get another summer with him. He could yell at you for months on end, and still you wouldn't mind.

You turn sixteen on April twenty-second, and a letter arrives.

_Meet me at the Stone Circle. Now._

—_R_

Your pulse quickens. How thrilling, and dangerous! He's never come to you before, not like this. As it's halfway through the day, you wonder if there will be trouble. There are still some classes to go, and you're not sure what might happen if he's spotted on campus. Things got a little bumpy in the Wizarding world at the start of 1996, after all, with the mass breakout and the release of people like Bellatrix Lestrange. If anyone recognizes Rabastan and knows his connection to his sister-in-law…there could be trouble.

Still, you rush as quietly and covertly as you can manage to the Stone Circle. At first your heart drops because it looks empty…but it soars again once you spot a thin silhouette behind one of the stones facing the forest.

"Theo," Rabastan says curtly. His hands don't stop moving. He can't keep still. If you thought he smoked, he'd probably have a fag hanging out of the corner of his mouth right now, unlit and gnashed between nervous, chattering teeth.

"Rab," you say, trying to keep your glee out of your voice.

He shakes his head. "You can't be serious."

"About what?"

He narrows his eyes at you. "You know _exactly_ what."

Your grin fades into a straight line. "Oh, don't get so pissy."

"Pissy?" he hisses. "_Pissy_?" He stomps over to you, but it's not as intimidating as it used to be. He hovers over you…but not really. And you realize it when he backs you into one of the stones.

Two years ago he towered over you. Now you're eye to eye…no. That's not right. You're slightly taller. When did this happen?

He seems to realize this, too. But he doesn't deflate. "You're an idiot, if you're doing what I think you're doing," he stumbles, flustered and furious.

"Doing what?" you play along.

"Stop playing games, Theodore." His eyes are like blue lightning—hot and bright.

"It's not a game, Rabastan." You wonder what he sees in your eyes.

"It has to be, because you don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing." Maybe it's the height you've gained, maybe it's because you're the only one with a cool, level head right now, but you feel emboldened, empowered. And you don't even have the Mark—yet.

Rabastan shakes his head. "This is—it's—"

"Stupid? Ridiculous? Insane? Childish?" You cock your head to one side and sigh. So this is what it feels like when the other person doesn't know what to say and you're left to fill the silence. "It's actually fairly smart. I'd be an asset, you know. We need more thinkers like me. My angle is to become an Unspeakable, eventually. I'd be very useful—"

"It's not about use!" Rabastan shouts. "You think this will give you a sense of belonging, of family—"

"No, I don't," you lie.

"I know you—you're lying." He thinks that gives him a step up. "Theo, turn away from this path now. It might bring you closer to your father right now, but if you mess up—"

"My father? That's what you think this is all about?" You laugh, darkly, and the noise is alien. It's not you, but you could care less at this moment. "And, excuse you, but I've learned from the best. You've taught me how to be cautious, how to think twelve steps ahead."

"Then…" His thought terminates on his lips.

You see it as an opportunity and move forward. But, ah, he's so smart, and the student can never surpass the master as he thinks twelve steps ahead of you and dodges what would've been a botched first kiss, instead bringing you close to him, so close that he hugs you tightly and that way you can't move and can't get anything from him. (Although you relish this contact; you've never experienced this before, either.)

"Oh, gods…," he murmurs. He turns his head in towards your neck, still embracing you tightly. "What have I done? Sweet Salazar, what have I done…?"

You don't understand the meaning of his words, but you want him to understand. "But, Rab, I lo—"

"No, you don't. We're like family. Nothing more. That's all there is too it." Five more minutes of him muttering under his breath, self-deprecating and ending again in that mysterious notion: "I'm such a narcissist…"

You don't understand any of it. You don't get why he'd turn you away. Haven't you been the same to him that he's been for you: the one person in his corner, the one person who actually cares about him?

(But you aren't critical of him for very long because, as he once pointed out, neither of you can stay mad at the other. Besides, you have better thoughts to entertain, you perceptive little chit:

He said you're "like" family.

"Like" isn't the same as "is."

And _that's_ when you know there's a door left ajar between you two.)

- ^-^3

…but that door closes.

It's not through any fault of your own.

Hell, it's not really Rabastan's fault, either.

Instead, you blame Potter's gang and that insufferable group calling themselves the Order of the Phoenix.

Just about everyone was captured after the Department of Mysteries battle. Lucius Malfoy, Dolohov, Father… Bellatrix got out, Rodolphus is fine, and the Dark Lord still walks free ground.

But Rabastan?

No, of course not. That would be too kind for you. And life doesn't like being kind to you.

You get your grades—more than passing, you're one of the best in your year—but there's no one with which to share them. Rabastan's in Azkaban, and so's Father.

Your house is empty for once, and it's not the freedom you'd thought it be, being a warden of the Ministry. Due to your age, they're allowing you to live at home by yourself, with periodical visits from your case manager and Aurors. There's nothing else to do since you have no other family.

Sometimes, you wish you had gone with them, if only to be locked up in the end, with Rabastan. In a cell with him or beside him or whatever—

Azkaban would be bearable if you had him.

- ^-^3

Sixth year is salt in your un-healing wounds.

As if it isn't bad enough with Potter prancing around as the "Chosen One," things in your House have taken a sudden, sour turn for the worse.

Pansy and Zabini don't comment. They're smart enough not to do so. Goyle and Crabbe don't have a leg to stand on between the two of them, because their fathers were caught, too. Daphne tries to smile and engage you in small-talk, but you find it meaningless and worthless, and so you throw yourself into your Dark education.

And Malfoy? Oh, Malfoy… It's almost as though Lucius' imprisonment never happened. He's happily mouthing off about the things he's going to do, the "grand" things that will scare so many…

And he hints. Oh, how he hints. He talks up a big game in front of Zabini and Pansy best, the latter of whom enjoys stroking his ego (and who you're fairly sure wants to stroke something else of Malfoy's, as well).

Still…for all his hinting…Malfoy _does_ seem to cover up well, and you catch him wincing at times when someone brushes his left arm the wrong way.

Then you see it.

It's just a glimpse, but you've glimpsed Rabastan's before, so you know without a doubt that Malfoy has been Marked.

It can't get any better than this.

- ^-^3

It doesn't, of course.

You turn seventeen—of-age—the day _after_ the Apparition license exam.

Gods, you couldn't even be born on the right day.

- ^-^3

It takes forever for things…to what? "Get better"? You're not sure there's really a phrase for the change in luck for which you so desperately yearn.

Dumbledore's killed. Malfoy, as it turns out, is fairly competent, because he sneaks in some of the Death Eaters still on the loose. Parts of the castle are damaged, and the half-giant's hut is set aflame.

All the while, as the school year draws to a lively close, all you pray for is another breakout from Azkaban. Even if only a few attempt… Even if only a few make it out… Even if only one person comes home.

(Someone must be listening, because your wish is granted.)

The year's halfway gone before you come home one night from a walk and discover the house is open. An Auror or your case worker, you think. Maybe things have changed now that you're of-age. Maybe you'll no longer be a warden of the Ministry.

Instead you find your father slumped in the doorway, exhausted.

Your shock shows on your face, but he doesn't have the energy to berate you. He beckons you to come close, and you kneel beside him.

He brings you into an awkward hug, with one arm mostly around your shoulders. It's as if you've been close since you were little. "We made it out," he breathes, and his breath is ragged.

There's a dull thud that grows louder in your ears, almost to the point where it's unbearable…then you realize it's the sound of your heart pounding in your chest. You want to ask him who made it out successfully, but you're still far too scared of him to ask. (A part of you wonders if you'll ever stop being scared of him.)

"All of us," he elaborates.

Surely your ears are playing tricks on you.

Father motions for you to close the door and magically secure the house before he feeds you another tidbit. "Dementors now," he says with raised eyebrows, and you realize he means to say that the Dementors have sided with Lord Voldemort. That explains a lot.

"You mean…?"

He bites his lower lip, as you've seen him do countless times, but it's more out of impatience than in annoyance. "_All_ of us," he repeats. And he means every Death Eater on hand.

He means Rabastan.

Of course there are others—look at that, Malfoy got lucky again, getting his father back—but you don't care. All you conclude is that Rabastan is free. Maybe not safe, but free.

You spend the next two weeks looking after your father. He catches you up on a few things. There's no time for any more Marking now, but he's glad you're on his side (Rabastan's side, you mentally correct, but whatever). When you worry about the Ministry showing up at your front door, he assures you that won't be a problem.

"We've got that covered." There's a frightening glint in his eye. That time that you laughed and intimidated Rabastan…that maniacal side you thought didn't feel like you…maybe this is from where you got it.

And his words are clear as the year progresses, and the Ministry—and Hogwarts—are absorbed into Voldemort's domain. At last, the world is becoming what you want it to be. You're only missing one piece now.

- ^-^3

Death Eaters may teach at and roam the castle now, but you're still tightlipped about your leanings. You don't want some upstart to surprise you and use your feelings against you.

On the one hand, the Carrows kind of like you, which scares the hell out of most of the other students and keeps them away, so you're fine with that.

There's another advantage to being on Alecto and Amycus'…good (do they have a "good" side?) sides. You can ask them a bit about their comrades.

"Some of them will be cycling through here, checking on our…security," Alecto says.

You so hope Rabastan will be one of them.

But, the more you think about it, the less sense that makes. Rabastan's one of the Dark Lord's oldest, closest followers. It wouldn't make sense to send Rabastan when it'd be just as fine to use some disposable underling. So you resign yourself to the idea that you'll have to wait a little longer to see him.

- ^-^3

One April evening, well before your eighteenth birthday, you can't sleep.

You lie awake in your four-poster, staring at the ceiling. You can hear Crabbe and Goyle snoring and Zabini tossing and turning. No sound comes from Malfoy, but that's because he's not present. He went home last month for some unknown reason. He does that a lot these days, coming and going. You wish you could do the same.

Well, you can do that within the castle, at least. You sit up, swing your legs over the edge, and fumble for your shoes and a jumper. On nights like this, you can't really sleep. A walk might calm your mind…it hasn't so far, but you keep trying regardless.

Perhaps, ages ago, you would've been intimidated by the castle's eeriness at night. But after knowing Rabastan and, recently, coming to know your father, the few things that go bump in the night here are more of a comfort. There are real, worse things to be scared of that hide in the dark.

Normally the paintings chide anyone carrying a light when they try to sleep, but none of them rebuke you as you take your stroll. You know why. Earlier in the year, Amycus had some paintings removed because of their complaints. Interestingly enough, he's the more merciful sibling. Alecto prefers to blast the images right there on wall.

Outside the Great Hall, you slow down. Hmph. There's nothing great left about the place.

In the Entrance Hall, you eye the front door. A fragment of you wonders what could happen if you were to walk right out…

"I wouldn't do that if I were you" says a familiar voice.

You jump, out of surprise as well as delight. "Rabastan."

He holds up his wand's light and squints at you. "_Theodore_?" He curses bitterly. "Of all the people… I thought you were smart enough not to go wandering. You could get in real trouble, you know."

"Trouble's the spice of life," you say, and he scowls. It makes you smile.

"Go back to bed."

"No."

"Theodore—"

"Make me."

His eyes widen. "Are you actually being this childish right now? I can't believe—"

Your glee dampens until it fades into nothing. "You never saw me."

He bites his lip.

"I know you got out as soon as it happened. I looked after Father." Your slippers slap against the stone floor as you near him. "Why didn't you come see me?"

"It would've been a bad idea," he answers. He grabs your arm and drags you along, in the direction of the dungeons to send you back to bed.

You resist, digging your heels in and using your significant strength to yank your arm free. One thin man versus another—the one that puts in some real effort wins, of course. "Rabastan, just be honest with me, for once."

"I've always been honest with you." But he doesn't look at you.

"Maybe. But you're so damned cryptic." You gesture at your surroundings. "So maybe this is as far as I go." You lower your voice. "So maybe Malfoy's meant to be Marked and I'm not—"

"Damn straight you're not—"

"But," you continue strongly, "if you want to close all the avenues allowing me to get closer to you, at least tell me why." You make your eyes imploring and hope they work. After all, doesn't he have a soft spot for you? Doesn't he? Why else would he waste his breath on you?

"I—" He closes his mouth, searching for the right words. Probably to confuse you again. "I…" He furrows his brow and grabs your wrist, pulling you round the corner into a small, narrow hallway. He pushes you against the wall but keeps himself in check. His eyes are begging you to return to your room, to rest your case without getting the answers you're demanding. "Theo…"

You're fed up. You've had it. You've become a savage beast—he made you this way. That collectedness is just a mirage; it's just a show to hide the animal that you are. You know, because he's the same way. The only difference is that he's a timid creature, and you're an impatient one.

His head doesn't crack when you grab him and push him behind you against the wall. It thuds dully, and gives you pause. Your eyes search his face and catch his eyes. For the first time ever, you catch a glimmer of fear in those ultramarine orbs. He is scared of you.

It's the grandest victory and the finishing blow all at once. Your face nears his until you can rest your forehead against his. It takes all your strength not to peck his lips, not to bite into his neck, not to grab at every bit of his pale skin hidden by all that cloth.

Merlin, Malfoy was right. All you want to do is fancy and fuck the man before you.

You breathe hard. No, you're better than that, than this. You're calm, levelheaded. You're someone of whom Rabastan's proud. So you stand up straight and release his upper arms. You smooth your robe over your pajamas. You're ready to act as if none of this ever happened.

Rabastan is a mixture of things: grateful, frightened…regretful? (No, stop being hopeful.) "Theo," he whispers.

"What?" Your voice is hoarse. Your navy eyes stick to the ground. You wish to melt into the castle now.

"After all this…" He exhales and comes forward, closing the distance and resting his head on your shoulder for but a moment. "If we survive this, I'll explain it all. I—I swear it."

Just like that, your heart lifts. You raise your hand gingerly, hesitating. You gently touch where his head hit the wall and rub it, hoping to ease the pain (of his head, and in your heart). "Promise?"

"Isn't that the same thing as swearing?"

"Yes, it is, my little narcissist," you say with a chuckle.

He backs up, quick as lightning. His eyes search yours for something…but whatever it is he doesn't find it. He relaxes. "Whatever, my spiky-haired brat."

You snicker. Then you purse your lips. "Make me another promise?" you ask as you head back to the dungeons.

He walks you to the door. "Within reason."

"Survive…this."

Rabastan frowns, but he reaches out and ruffles your hair. You might be a few inches taller than him, but it's not awkward. It's comforting. "I'll do my best. You do the same. Goodnight, Theo."

"Goodnight, Rab."

(Yes, it's true. Neither of you can stay angry at the other.

And when this stalemate is over and a side emerges, you'll tell him that and explain why.)

- ^-^3

When the day comes, you nearly can't breathe.

It's as though your world is crumbling all around you. In some ways, it is. The castle's being blown to bits, and people and things are being blown up.

Slytherins tend to run.

Ravenclaws throw spells and books.

Hufflepuffs herd the younger ones and lead them out of danger.

Gryffindors…well, they're bloody idiots, running headfirst into anything.

Even the teachers and the house-elves and the armor—everything and everyone possible fights.

You dart around in the shadows. You see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle fight on their fathers' side. Pansy and the other girls choose to hide. Even Malfoy doesn't look to have his heart really in it.

Every few minutes when you come across a masked face, your loyalties waver. Do you fight this person, or do you fight alongside them? Luckily, they let you go (most of the time, they don't even look at you).

Meanwhile, you can only think to hunt for one mask in the crowd.

(His mask, of course. You memorized it. Every little detail. That summer spent at his home? You stole into his room a few times when he slept elsewhere. You knew where he kept it. You know how polished it is. You know how brand-new it seems.

You know how unused it seems.)

The grime you get on you and the dust you breathe in and the hearing loss you experience—they'll be worth it if you can just find _him_, save _him_.

(Because you're beginning to doubt his side, Father's side. Something tells you, smart boy that you are, that this is the battle to end the war, and Father won't be coming out on top.)

…

(You don't exactly mind, so long as _he's_ safe.)

There's the fight, the chance to give Potter up, more of a fight, Potter plays dead, and the battle ends for real. There's a quiet kind of cheer, but, honestly, you tune it all out.

(In the end, it doesn't register that you chose sides by not fighting against Potter. Honestly, _your_ side isn't good or bad. It's the one where you and Rabastan are both alive.)

As you didn't participate, you're looked down on by those who did. To them, you could've protected some students.

To the few Death Eaters who are conscious and being rounded up by the Order, you're scum.

(You don't even care that Father's dead. His body's outside, half stuck under a fallen giant.)

All the while, you search the faces—alive and dead—for blue eyes that bother you and long black hair that enthralls you. Half an hour passes, and no luck.

"Theodore, are you all right?"

You jolt by the Viaduct.

Daphne's teal eyes pop out of her head, but only because the whites around them are bright red from crying. "Theodore?"

You shake your head. You say nothing. You don't want her to be the first to hear your voice post-tumult.

"…Draco's disappeared," she says. "Same with his parents. Pansy…is quiet now. I think it's Blaise's influence."

You don't feel bad. And you don't feel bad about not feeling bad. You couldn't care less right now.

"…Crabbe's dead. Goyle's in shock and Millicent's like some statue he's resting on…"

Whatever else Daphne says, you don't know. You tune her out and allow yourself to feel despair.

What a mistake it was, finding someone to be in your corner, caring for someone…

(Now it's just time to mourn the dead.)

- ^-^3

Your mourning period leaves you numb.

It lasts the whole summer, which especially sucks as you're rather tied to your home. With Father gone and Aurors questioning you every couple of weeks, you're still a suspected ally of the Dark Lord.

(Honestly, you gave up those aspirations when Rabastan looked at you that night and swore you'd both live.)

(Or maybe it was before that…

Who knows?)

No one comes around, and that suits you just fine. You read the papers. Malfoy and his family got out with testimonies, though they'll never be a true part of society ever again. Kingsley Shacklebolt is interim Minister, but he's likely to stay on; things are too messy right now.

Of Father's comrades, you see their names from time to time:

Most died in the battle. Rodolphus is insane and in Azkaban. Dolohov's dead. That idiot Rowle escaped. Alecto and Amycus are cozy in prison. …the names kind of blur at some point.

By the time September arrives, you snap out of your stupor. It's strange, not going back. The world seems to agree, for it rains on the first of the month, and you sit on the stoop of the back door to your house.

(These days, some sick part of you wishes for Bluebell Flames once more…)

With the rain, you don't hear the faint _pop_ of Apparition. A minute later, you see Shunter standing off to the side. He passes you a note and goes inside the house, and you read the formal document. He belongs to you now, and you laugh hollowly. Rabastan probably didn't want you to get any thinner than you already were.

"I…didn't want you to get any thinner than you already are" a voice from beyond the grave mumbles.

You freeze, and not because of the rain. You're too scared to look behind you and to the left. If you do, then the illusion would fade. And it's so nice to hear his smooth voice again after all this time, even if it's just your psyche being kind (or cruel?) to you.

"I'm not an illusion."

You snort. "Illusions say that."

Rabastan crosses his arms in front of his chest—you can hear the rustle of cloth—and clears his throat. "I can't stay long."

"You can stay forever, since you're a figment of my imagination."

Instead of continuing to bicker with you, he ruffles your hair. But he does it slowly and gently, and he crouches down beside you. "No, I'm not. I'm a wanted man."

You pause. Then you grab his hand and yank his arm forward, so that his face is near yours. Sweet Salazar, you can even feel, smell, and taste his breath as he exhales. To confirm your sanity, you peck a fresh scar at the corner of his right eyebrow. Ah, his skin. Yes, it really is him.

"I made a promise, didn't I?" he says, ignoring your gesture and the fact that you won't release his hand. He can't hide the growing color in his cheeks, though.

"So then explain it all to me."

"It's a long story."

"I've got all the time in the world."

He grins wanly at your cliché, but he takes a deep breath. "Your life… I lived something like it. And then I stupidly followed my brother into…that life. I never got out."

"You didn't want that for me."

"No." Rabastan holds on to your left hand and pushes up the sleeve. "Un-Marked skin…is perfect, in my eyes."

You're smart. Things clicked into place a while ago. "Every time you told me you were a narcissist… I was young, you cradle-robber."

"Merlin, I know. I couldn't justify what I was coming to feel."

"Don't feel too bad. I was about fifteen then, nearly an adult."

He laughs darkly. "Can we make me seem like any less of a pervert?"

"Maybe if I say that I felt something before you felt something?"

There's a long pause. "That'll do."

A long time passes in silence. Then you tell him, "I'm going for it, you know. Becoming an Unspeakable." You glide your eyes to him. "I'm good at keeping secrets."

"That you are," he compliments. He sighs. "But I can't stick around."

"For now."

"Maybe ever." He stands, but you stubbornly refuse to release his right hand. "Theo, don't act like a spoiled brat."

"You made me this way, Rab."

He curses, but he can't retort. You're right, after all. After a while: "You really want to know why I didn't want you to join us?"

"Sure."

"You would've been chewed up and spit out. I nearly was." He turns his head your way, and you look up at him. It's the longest you two have ever stared at each other, and you wish the moment won't end. "That was no place for soft hearts."

You frown. "I don't have a soft heart."

He smiles, and it's enough to make the rain go away. "Yes, you do." He shakes his hand free and disappears into the house.

Like a worried child, you chase after your beloved toy. You find him at the foot of the staircase, where you first met him over eleven years ago.

"Shunter's yours now, as I can't really use him and no one should go near the Lestrange estate… Take good care of him for me, will you?"

"I'll do my best, but the only track-record I know of is Father's, so maybe I won't be very good with—"

"Oh, you'll be fine. Besides, I taught you lots, didn't I?" He laughs.

You finally swallow his laugh with an abrupt snog. It's rather anticlimactic, your timing, but it tastes fantastic all the same. And his stunned face is so priceless, you laugh as you trap him in your arms.

"I don't remember teaching you _that_," he grumbles by your ear.

"Don't fret. No one else taught me either. I guess I just have a vivid imagination."

"I guess so…"

Minutes pass and neither of you move. But then you hear clinks in the kitchen, and Shunter begins to cook. Reality returns.

"I should go, in case the Aurors drop by again." He pushes you away.

Though you don't want to, you get defensive. "Wait, you've been watching?" How long has he been keeping his distance, really?

He frowns. "Theo, I—" He shakes his head. "You should become an Unspeakable. I do think you'd be good at it. Besides, it's something to occupy your time. Time will fly that way, I find." His eyes are soft and pleading.

You sigh and run your hand through his hair. After all this time, to do that finally… It's like a birthday wish come true. You look him up and down, your eyes roving all over, memorizing every single detail, every pore, every hair, every thread. "Yeah," you say at last. "Time will fly."

(And letting him go is easier that way. Because time _will_ fly, and if you know him at all—and you do—then history will repeat itself and he won't be able to stay away. He'll visit you time and again, because he can't stay away for very long.

You smile, even as he Disapparates away. Because you know. You're smart.

One day, you'll make him stay.

Should it take months, years, or decades—

Eventually, he'll stay.)

- ^-^3

**YES. *new crack pairing, anyone?* Gods… I got the idea for them in a dream, and then I finished writing this listening to "Love Lost" by The Temper Trap (which I'm beginning to think is their song…). I mean, these two won't let go of me. I even wrote another 3 fics for them before finishing this! (And "Lyrical" is kind of in the universe of this fic, too, so you might like that if you enjoyed this.) Argh… I'm tempted to explore Rab even more, gotta say… I know he tortured the Longbottoms, but it kinda makes you wonder if it was more out of some mixture of fear and insanity, as I have him mention here… Alas, these are the things of fanfiction, where it's okay to love an evil bastard (Theo does ;P). And I did include some of my head-canon here, regarding some pairings and Theo's family life and his becoming an Unspeakable. *happy sigh* I accomplished a lot in this fic that makes me quite pleased, ngl. I loved Rab's narcissist comment from the first moment he said it, because he was the second to fall in love but the first to realize it… *babbling now* There are also a few hints of Rab and Regulus, in case you were wondering… (Not exactly romantic, but at least as someone for Rab to have lost.) Lastly, the term "Shunter" comes from Derek Landy's **_**Skulduggery Pleasant**_** series, so credit to him, ayup.**

**Anyway, thank you very much for reading, and please don't favorite this without reviewing! Thankies!**

**-mew-tsubaki :3**


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